Mercurial Innocence, or, The Beginning of the Start
by Mezo Phane
Summary: Jasmine Smythe, a disgraced journalist, moves back to Chicago, her hometown, to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. She is struggling to rise from the ash heap she hurled herself into, when one day changes everything. First in a series, will update regularly.


**A.N. ****So, this is an original work which was inspired by Dramione, from the chemistry between my two characters, to the appearance of my Detective. I read so much of this pairing when I was a fledgeling fanfiction reader, and it invigorated and spurred me to create this, a pet project of about four years. I thank you, Dramione writers, for your indirect contribution to my work.**

**Dedication**

**To my Mother, my best friend, the most amazing, brave and strong woman I know, and my Grandmother, a living inspiration, my faithful, loyal, and patient listeners and editors.**

**To my grounded, levelheaded, and wisecracking Father, who helps me keep things realistic and hilarious.**

**To Fathers Ted and Bogdan, my Spiritual Uncles.**

**To Father Tim, the best Spiritual Director, friend, and Brother I could ask for.**

**I love you all!**

**AMDG**

**Acknowledgments**

**To the Holy Trinity, thank you for the inspiration and help out of tight spots.**

**To my Mother and Father for making me who I am today, and who keep me on solid ground.**

**Disclaimer: I ACTUALLY own this sucker, so I'll just say that this is a work of fiction, any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is completely and entirely coincidental.**

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Normally, the urge to introduce my head to my desk came around one in the afternoon. But this week had been a particularly frustrating one, and so it was at 8:47 am that my head was repeatedly meeting my desk. Of course, this awkward moment is when one of my landladies entered my room.

"Jasmine, honey, stop hitting your head on the desk!" Ms. Wanda Fulton exclaimed.

She looked shocked, but not terribly surprised at my behavior. She came in and set down a tray on the desk, shook her head and put a cocoa colored hand on my cheek. Ms. Wanda Fulton was a sweet woman in her late fifties, early sixties. She and her friend, Mrs. Rima DeLuca ran the boarding house in which I was staying, which also happened to be their house.

"Look now, just because no one's hiring journalists, doesn't mean you lose hope, and start hitting yourself on the head," she spoke in that thick Southern drawl of hers.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Jasmine Leigh Smythe. I was - AM a journalist. Six years ago, I was in Northwestern University, getting my Bachelor's Degree in Journalism and Criminal Justice. I would've been Summa cum Laude, if Kymberly Donalson hadn't stolen my journalism paper. But I got over that, and got myself hired by a big paper in Philly, so I moved. I was the star reporter. My name was spoken of in hushed tones around the office. Then one day, I wrote a brilliant article. It was about an injustice carried out during the murder trial of a man named Francis Vazzalini. The DA's case had a million holes in it, it was a miracle the judge even allowed it. He was evidently innocent, but someone paid a few jurors off, and Vazzalini was declared guilty and sentenced to life in prison. I had all my evidence. It was all crystal clear, he was wrongly imprisoned. But my editor flat out refused to print it. He said that all I wrote was slanderous libel, and that I was a disgrace to journalism. I was demoted to reporting local suburb events. Soon, I couldn't handle it anymore. Two months after my demotion, I had a nervous breakdown. I trashed my editors office, shouting nonsense, things I can't even remember. I don't even know if half of what I said was even true; I was rambling. Soon, a coworker called the cops. I was arrested, and charged with disorderly conduct and assault, because my editor claimed I hit him, which I didn't. Unfortunately, the judge for my case was gunning for the maximum jail time—a year. My lawyer managed to get me institutionalized for about six months, instead of going to prison for the disorderly conduct and assault charge. When I got out, I learned that I had been fired, and I had to get my things from the office. Indeed, my name was spoken of in hushed tones when I walked in, except much differently than before. I left Philly, and moved back to Chicago, far from the rumors of a reporter who lost it one day.

So here I was, in Chicago, looking for another job. The editors, of course were eager when they saw my creds, but then they saw that I was in "The Loony Bin". Then they would say, "Oh, we're sorry, but you're not what we're looking for." Yeah, right. More like you don't want to hire someone who's been called crazy. I gave up on joining a newspaper. I guess I'm now what you call a freelance journalist. But that's a nice term for, "I can't really get a job, so I'm reporting anything and everything to pay my rent." But, even that, I hadn't been doing much of. It was a slow week. It'd been a slow year, really. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

"I don't know what to do, Ms. Wanda. No work for weeks. I can't keep staying here on credit."

She shook her head. "Jasmine, honey, you stay here as long as you need. It's not like we need the room anyways."

"If I just hadn't flown off the handle..." I put my head in my hands.

"Jasmine, what's in the past is in the past. You did what you did. Now you are where you are, and you have to have the strength to keep going. And besides, why would you want to work for a lying ass who calls you names and doesn't know a good article when he sees one?"

I smiled at her description of my erstwhile editor.

"Come on, Jasmine, eat a cookie. You barely ate anything for breakfast."

I brightened a bit. Ms. Wanda's cookies were delicious. I looked at the tray, and it had a glass of milk and a plate with three cookies. I felt my mouth water. I reached for one and started eating. Ms. Wanda smiled, knowing I loved her cookies, and left the room, saying, "Make sure you come down for lunch, honey."

"Yes, Ms. Wanda." After finishing the cookies and milk, I resumed trawling the internet for jobs. I found a posting, but once I called, the positions had been filled, and they just hadn't taken down the ad, apparently. Sighing, I went down, pulled on my coat, and walked out the door, following a path that had become increasingly familiar as of late. I thought to try the rectory, but knowing what I knew, he wouldn't be there. Instead, my feet took me across the the street from the church. Soon, I came to the worn red pneumatic hinged door, and stepped inside. I found myself inside the Community Center of my parish church, St. Rosalie's.

"Father?" I called out.

"In the kitchen!" The familiar Polish-accented voice brightly called out. Taking off my coat, and putting on one of the aprons hanging at the entrance of the kitchen, I stepped in, and in the middle of the kitchen, chopping carrots, was Father Tadeusz "Ted" Novak. He looked up with a kind smile.

"Jasmine. Come to help again?" He said this with a look in his eyes that indicated that he knew something, as usual, was up.

"Yes, Father." He motioned to the chopping board opposite himself, which had another knife and some celery lying on top. I immediately moved towards it, and began chopping. Once I settled into a rhythm, I asked, "What are we making, Father?"

"Chicken noodle soup. And then some roast pork." He motioned to another table, on which two half thawed slabs of pork rested. Cooking for the poor, I found, is very therapeutic. It gives you the sense that you are actually contributing to someone else's state of life for the better, and in turn, that gives yourself a sense of fulfillment, of purpose. Which in my state, was very soothing.

"How are things, Father?" I asked, following our routine for days like this. He would tell me about his problems while we cooked, we would work in silence serving on the line, and when we were finally sat down together, after Father finished making his rounds, I would tell him about my problems. It was a nice routine, solid. It helped me to hear someone else's problems, it let me know that I wasn't the only person in the world who had issues. And Father was a solid advisor, who helped me on my worst days, so it was a quid pro quo, to put a technical term to it. But to get out of a technical point of view, it was a friendship that I have come to prize very much. When I came back to Chicago, no one whom I had met in Philly, people who I considered "friends", kept in contact. And I could hardly blame them. In Philly, I was a little caustic—still am, it's just translated itself into sarcasm—my ambition tended to blind me, and my achievements had gotten to my head so much that it seemed I almost expected them to appear emblazoned in the air above me. It didn't help that I really was good. On top of that, I was highly connected, my name was known amongst the upper echelons of Philadelphia society, as high as the mayor himself. And that would explain why people got close to me - to further their own goals. So I basically had no friends - until Father Ted. Then things started to get better for me. I learned how to be humble, to be proud of my achievements, but not self satisfied, and I started to have friends—my fellow boarders, my landladies. I owe Father Ted a lot, and I am very grateful to him for all he's done for me.

"And again, the diocese disburser, refuses to help, citing a tight budget and it is only getting worse." Father Ted was saying in reference to the pothole riddled parking lot that Father had been trying to repair with the rather tight collection plate, and to help with the cost had petitioned the diocese for help with the balance - but they, in a very nice way of putting it, did not want to help.

"Well, Father, maybe if you show His Excellency pictures of the parking lot, he will give you the money."

"That could work, if I could even see him. He is fully booked for weeks, and we need the money now. It is a health hazard." We had just finished with chopping all the vegetables, and we were starting to put them in the simmering broth with the pulled chicken breast. At this moment, in a rare treat, Father Ted's brother, Father Bogdan, came into the kitchen.

"Ah, Jasmine, good, you're here. I will get started on the roast pork." He started to tenderize the slabs of meat. "I called the Archbishop, but again, the appointment book of His Excellency is full. He has no time, Tadeusz."

Father Ted sighed, resigned to much more of this. "It does not matter, Bogdan, if the Archbishop cannot help us, God will provide."

"I know," he replied, hammering away at the meat. It went on like this, the camaraderie in the kitchen evident in the steady conversation—well, mostly on Father Ted's part. Father Bogdan was always the more quiet of the two. Father Ted is gregarious, Father Bogdan is sedate and quiet. While the two of them are tall, and wear eyeglasses, they do not look alike. Father Ted has wavy salt and pepper hair, (with more salt than pepper nowadays) handsomely patrician features which age has softened, and gentle silvery blue eyes. Father Bogdan has a mop of brown hair, brown eyes, and a boyish, endearing, round face, always mild in its expression. However, they both are very kind, caring, and holy, exemplars of priestly conduct. By the time we finished the cooking, the line for lunch was already long, and the food was almost finished. There was just enough for Father Ted, Father Bogdan and myself. While Father Ted made the rounds, greeting those who came, one by one, Father Bogdan and I began to talk about my frustrating job search. "You have had luck finding a job, Jasmine?"

I sighed and ran my hand down my face. "No Father, nothing."

"Have you been praying?"

"Yes, Father, very much. If I could, I'd get angry at God for not answering sooner, but I can't—and I won't. I shouldn't: that's wrong."

"What is wrong, Jasmine?" Father Ted had now come to our little table, tucked in the corner.

"Getting angry at God, Father."

"Ah. You still haven't found anything?" He asked, knowing immediately what I was going on about.

"No, Father. And it's, it's—it's bad."

"Just keep praying, have faith, and offer your suffering and impatience to the Lord. That's all you can do. But, I have a feeling your circumstance will change soon. I was just telling Bogdan at breakfast that I had this nagging feeling that soon, you would be in a better situation."

"You always tell me that, Father."

He smiled, and said, "No, I think this is different. I was praying—for you, in fact, and all of a sudden I got this feeling. This is different, Jasmine, just wait, and in God's time, you will see. Be patient. As they say, it's always darkest before the dawn."

"I hope this is the darkest it can get," I joked. This made Father Ted and Father Bogdan laugh.

"For your sake," Father Ted said, "I hope so."

After, there was the clean up to do, so I stayed to help, and when that was done, started to pack my stuff to go home. "You're going to be all right, Jasmine. I know you will." Father Ted reassured me.

I just nodded. "I'll probably see you tomorrow, Father. Thanks for the listening ear."

"Any time. You know where to find me. God bless you."

"Thanks, Father. Have a good night, and God bless you." And I plunged into the brisk Chicago Fall air. As I took the familiar path back home, I heard sirens along the road. Now that wasn't such an unusual occurrence, but what was, were the police officers running on the opposite sidewalk. I stopped to watch, unsure of what was going on. I heard a whirring sound over head, and when I looked up, there was a helicopter, with its search beam on - they were looking for someone. Every bone in my body wanted to run and follow the police, to see what was going on, but I restrained myself—I no longer had any press credentials, they would not tell me anything. So I reluctantly walked in the opposite direction. I did not get far, though, as I was bowled over when someone plowed into my back. The two of us sprawled to the ground, landing with an "Oof!"

I turned my head as I picked myself up off the pavement. A Hispanic man, with a shaved head and a look of utter fear on his face was also picking himself up. "I'm so sorry, Miss. I was in a hurry, and —" he turned around.

The police officers I saw earlier were coming in our direction and closing in fast. The Hispanic man turned back to me, grabbed me by the lapel of my coat and said, "It wasn't me, I'm innocent. Please believe me—I'm innocent. I wouldn't lay a hand on her."

The look in his eyes arrested me, it was so familiar: I couldn't place it, though. The police were now five feet away, and had drawn their guns.

"Let her go!" The officer in front cried.

He let my lapels go, and put his hands up. The other officers tackled him and began to mirandize him.

"Victor san Ignacio, you are under arrest for the murder of Miranda Pryzewski..."

"Miss, are you alright?" An officer asked me.

"Yes, I am." The cogs in my brain were turning, I was still trying to place the look in his eyes.

I absently heard the officer say, "You'll need to come to the 23rd precinct, to give a statement."

"Of course, of course." I muttered.

They hauled Victor up, his hands cuffed behind his back. He turned to me, straining against the restraints, and yelled. "I didn't kill her! You have to believe me!"

They hauled him into the arrived squad car, repeatedly yelling, and proclaiming his innocence. Then it clicked. The look in his eyes was so familiar, because I saw it in Francis Vazzalini. On the day they sentenced him to life in prison.

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Please Read and Review!

Mezo


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